The Spark
by Allyson Kat
Summary: Welcome to the 73rd Annual Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor! previously "The Year Before," which was sort of a working title .
1. Chapter 1

"Happy hunger games," I mock, clambering up towards my friends. Moller and Seamus grin devilishly at me. I can hear little Gilda crashing through the brush behind me.

"_And may the odds be ever in your favor, darlings_," they chime back at me, Seamus offering a hand to me. We snort at their crude imitations of Dibby Millighan's thick Capitol accent. She's been District Seven's escort for a mere three years, but her lilting voice has been the target of mockery since she first opened her mouth on that stage. Her lines are the same as that uttered by every escort across Panem, though the 'darlings' is her own sickening enclitic.

That and her ridiculous costumes. Kizee and Parchuck had asked me if it was Halloween the first time they set eyes on her. Understandably; she'd stalked onto stage in a cherry-red catsuit and a towering wig of the same color, the entire outfit studded with gleaming neon orange dots and her eyes painted neon blue.

"Hey, Gil!" Seamus waves. Gilda's big, dark eyes shoot up towards me traitorously. She's panting from exertion and she holds up a huge loaf of bread and a basket of berries.

"Thanks for leaving me, Zaylie," she mutters. "I could have been eaten by a bear and you'd have never known it!"

"Stop worrying," I wave her ridiculous worries away and offer her a hand. Moller removes the berries from her twiglike arm. I take the bread from her. "Do you know if Ellsa is on her way?"

"I left with you, didn't I?" Gilda raises one arched eyebrow at me. "How would I know?" She giggles, then, to make sure nobody thinks she is being purely rude.

"Well, we can't start our feast without her." Seamus climbs up one branch higher. The pre-reaping feast is a tradition of ours and has been since Moller (the oldest of us) turned twelve.

"She said she was bringing cheese, I think," Moller adds, eyes lighting in the thrill of competition as he struggles to find a higher branch than Seamus.

"Yes! I did!" Ellsa appears so quietly (so unlike Gilda) that it nearly gives everyone a heart attack. She waves a fine-sized chunk in the air above her head. Gilda and I hoist the sprightly blonde into the tree. Seamus is quick to snatch the cheese away from her hands.

"Well, now that we're all here," I start, but Seamus interrupts:

"To Freya!" He lobs one of the blackberries high into the air and out into the woods. We each take a small portion of food and hurl it into the woods after him.

"That's not how it's done, Seamus," Ellsa quips, annoyed. "She'd be pissed at your lack of respect."

"She _did_ die for us," Gilda adds.

"All in vain," I continue pessimistically, swinging down from the tree with Gilda and Ellsa. "There's still a reaping tomorrow, isn't there?" It takes Moller and Seamus a while longer to climb down and we make our way along the overgrown trail to Freya's grave.

As we reach our destination, Seamus utters a chipper greeting, "Hi, Freya," and lays a handful of blackberries on the grave. I brush my fingers against the cold glass plate covering the picture of her face. She was a beaming woman of about thirty with bright brown eyes and curling red hair. But she's dead now and has been since the rebellion, well before our time, buried here in a grave marked only with her first name.

Freya.

"Hi there, Freya," I follow Seamus's lead, placing a hunk of bread at her grave. "It would be really nice if none of us got reaped this year." The five of us sit down, Gilda and I leaning our backs against the cool stone.

The sun warms our faces and we eat in near-silence. It's how it has always been. We don't need to talk because we all understand. We all feel loss. We all feel the impending sense that the odds are not in any of our favors, that we could so easily be shipped off to the capitol. All of us have our names in there multiple times, all for the sakes of others.

Seamus smiles and squints as the bitterly delectable sweetness of one of the unripe berries hits his tongue. "How many times is your name in there, Gilda?"

Gil looks up, startled, and smiles solemnly. "Fifty-four." They whistle long and low, but I nod.

"Fifty-six." I say. "For Kizee."

"We did need that oil and grain," Gilda explains. The two of us meet gazes. Together, our names are in there one hundred and ten times. That is enough oil and grain to keep Kizee, Raphael, and Salla's family in a warm, lit house and well-fed for a few months, and hopefully enough to offset the chances of Kizee's name getting drawn.

"Mine's only in there thirty-five times," Seamus focuses his eyes on one of the berries. "Couldn't afford much more than that. Makes me feel bad, though. You two are..." His voice fades away, replaced by Ellsa's.

"Thirty-eight," Ellsa sulks.

"Forty-two," finishes Moller. We stuff our faces in an effort to drown the awkward topic in food. The conversation, thankfully, shifts to predictions as to Dibby Millighan's getup this year.

"I bet you anything she'll wear purple," Seamus says. "Anything at all."

"I doubt it," I retort. "Haven't you heard, green is all the rage in the Captiol?" They giggle at my imitation of her silly accent. "Yes, yes, the designers have decided that macabre is certainly fashionable these days, and green is the perfect color for that!"

Gilda dissolves into giggles before clearing her throat. We all await her speech eagerly; she has the best Dibby Millighan imitation any of us had ever heard. She has the whole act perfected, down to the little hand flicks, placement of giggles, and timbre of voice. In a sailing falsetto, Gilda begins:

"Oh, certainly, darling. Macabre is all the rage, especially with the approach of the Games! I certainly _could_ do with a dash more orange in my outfit, don't you think? Oh, of course you do!" She giggles. "Darling, could you pass me the bread? I know, I know, I'd die to be caught eating such low-brow food, but sometimes one cannot help themselves. I can only hope you would be so kind not to impose judgements." We pass her the loaf of bread. She picks at the soft inner part, not touching the crust. "Back in the Capitol, our bread is more fashionable. Though, might I say, this certainly represents your _darling_ district well enough! I feel I'm the luckiest woman to experience your bread!"

"Why thank you," we laugh.

"Oh, oh, _darling_," Moller interrupts.

"_No_, Moller!" Ellsa blushes furiously. "You can _not _get away with that!"

"It is kind of Gilda's thing," Seamus defends. Gil beams.

"And don't you forget it!" She winks at Moller, tossing the loaf of bread at him. He deftly catches it and rips off the crusts which now contain no actual bread. He crunches down and scowls at Gilda, whose attention is now focused on Ellsa. She doesn't notice.

As Moller and Ellsa depart to return to their families and spend the night caring for younger siblings, Seamus, Gilda, and I remain at Freya's grave.

"Freya," I mumble to the picture, "Please just make sure that nothing happens to Kizee or Parchuck or Salla. If I get picked, I mean. Or, just... in general. That's sort of your job as guardian angel, right?" Gilda has wandered off and now returns with a bouquet of flowers in her fist. She places the wildflowers at the base of Freya's grave and kisses the picture's cheek.

Our faith in Freya started as children. It is now almost instinctual. None of us had mothers, save for Ellsa, but Ellsa's mother hardly counts. We'd become fast friends in our school days. Ellsa's mother was crippled and bed-ridden, condemned to wither away a bit more each year, leaving Ellsa in charge of three younger siblings. We always used to sneak out and meet at the grave, but after the accident with Seamus and his miraculous recovery, we all started believing that the spirit of Freya had come to care for us and was watching over us. She replaced our mothers, all but lost to the five of us, and we became brothers and sisters under her maternal protection.

"I'm going to stay here a bit longer," Seamus tells us. "You two should go home. I bet Raph and Kizee want to see you." I bite my lip before touching Seamus' arm comfortingly.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning at the Reaping, then."

"See you then, I guess," he murmurs, staring at the grave. Gilda and I wander off together. Since her parents died within months of one another when she was three, she had become my surrogate sister. My own parents and Salla had taken her and her brother in, only for Dad to die and Mom to follow slowly, gruelling. Mom had finally gone days before our first Reaping. We've lived with Salla and her husband ever since.

I push back memories of Mom and Dad. I don't want to think of them.

To say I wouldn't volunteer for Gilda as readily as I would for Kizee would be a lie, but the difference is that Gil would never let me. This thought seems to lodge itself in my brain. I mull it over as we wander side-by-side in the amber light of the sunset.

Salla is waiting at the door, Parchuck clinging to her legs. She looks tired.

"I think Kizee needs you right now, Zaylie," she tells me quietly. "She's a real mess." This year is my baby sister's first year with her name in there. It's only natural for her to be frightened. The possibility that looms is now so imminent for her. I remember my own first year. I'd tried to remain strong, but I think it took a year's worth of Salla's patience and probably even a dose or two of morphling to calm me down the morning of the Reaping. Kizee had only been eight. "Gilda, Parchuck wanted you to tell him a bedtime story."

"Sure thing, kiddo," Gil stoops to look the six-year-old in the eye. "What about?"

"Pirates!" His eyes gleam dangerously.

"Right then- let's get you ready for bed, first, kid!" Gilda chases Parchuck up the stairs and he giggles wildly. Salla smiles.

"She has such a way with him... I can't imagine what life would've been like without her." Salla sighs deeply. "For her sake, and Raphael's, I wish their parents had lived. But, and I feel selfish saying this, for our family's sake, I'm glad Mom took them in when I was younger." I frown at her. She purses her lips, knowing she's said the wrong thing. A wail from upstairs interrupts us. "That would be Kizee. She needs you."

I race up the stairs and into the room I share with Gilda and Kizee. My sister lies in the bed, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling while tears run down either side of her face and land in her pretty hair. Her whole torso shakes with sobs.

"Hey, Kizee," I sit down on the bed next to her and she sniffles, looking at me fearfully.

"I just know they're going to pick me, Zaylie!" She says pitifully. "I just know it! And then I'll be shipped off and dressed up and then some older kid will come kill me and-" she chokes on her words and flops backwards onto the mattress again, covering her face with her arms.

"That won't happen, Kizee," I assure her.

"You don't know that."

"I do," I pull her arms away from her face so she'll look me in the eye. "Because if they call your name, I know I'll volunteer in your place." This clearly is not the right thing to say, because her sobs become much heavier and she shakes her head.

"No no no no! You can't, Zaylie, we need you!"

"I said _if_ they call your name. Which they won't. You want to know why?" She nods, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. "Because _the odds are ever in your favor_." I mimic Dibby Millighan's voice and she giggles a little. "Your name is only in there once, Kiz."

"Three times," she corrects guiltily. I stare, a little shocked. "I wanted to help Salla, so I put my name in there a couple more times to get some grain so she could make bread." I sigh and shake my head before continuing:

"Mine's in there fifty-six times, and Gilda's fifty-four. I'm sure there are girls with even more than us, too." I wipe her tears off with my thumbs and she clutches me carefully. "Think of how many girls there are in this district, Kizee. What are the chances it'll be you?"

"That's a selfish way to think," she ducks her head down and tucks her face into her knees.

"It's the only way we can afford to think," I rub her back slowly as the door creaks open. Gilda carefully wraps her arms around Kizee and kisses the top of her head. "It has to be someone, sweetie. If it's not you or me or Gil, then it has to be somebody else." Kizee chokes a little at the thought.

"I just don't want anybody to die."

"Shh," Gil strokes Kizee's hair. "Maybe we'll have a victor this year."

"Even then," Kizee sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve.

"You've got too big a heart, hon," Gil whispers. We quietly hold one another, Gil and I rocking Kizee between the two of us. She's the first to fall asleep, so we carefully tuck her beneath the comforter and lie on either side of her.

"What if one of us did get reaped?" Gilda asks suddenly. I shrug, staring at the darkened ceiling.

"It's really unlikely."

"Not for us," Gilda continues. "Our names are in there, Zaylie. More times than anybody else I've spoken to. Anybody."

"We needed food," I shrug again. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, because the ratio of our names to the whole rest of the bowl is small." She sighs quietly.

"I always get nervous the night before. I can't help it."

"I can't let myself get nervous," I admit. "I break when I do."

"We should get some sleep," she whispers, and I can feel her shuffling further down under the comforter.

"Night, Gilda."

"Goodnight, Zaylie."

* * *

**So I have wondered for a while what the year before Katniss might have been like. I think there had to be some kind of buildup to the full-scale rebellion that came with Katniss and Peeta's victory. Something that at least got people thinking.**

**I've always had this strange fascination with District Seven, so I decided to tell the story of the 73rd Annual Hunger Games from one of the tributes of District Seven's point of view. Yeah, I guess it should come as no surprise to you all, so I don't think I'm giving that much away. Sorry if I've ruined the story for you already. Whoopsie daisy.  
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**I hope you like Zaylie and I hope you like the story. Please review! And then tell other people to read it and have them review.  
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	2. Chapter 2

By the time Gilda wakes us up with her wild thrashing, it's too close to morning to bother trying to sleep again.

"Gilda, Gilda!" Kizee whispers desperately in the dark. Gilda pants, eyes shooting open and nightmare fading in them.

"It was just a dream," Gilda tells herself, seeming surprised.

"You can talk about it," I offer, but Gil shakes her head.

"No," she slips out of bed and into the hall.

"Would you like me to make you coffee?" I call after her. She shushes me and I see she's peering into the boys' room. Raphael and Parchuck share a bed, too, though theirs is more spacious than ours. Or perhaps it's an illusion, since there's only two of them.

Gilda leans against the doorframe and stares at Raphael's face.

"He was in the games," Gilda says quietly. "I can't even volunteer to go in his place if I wanted to."

"But Seamus and Moller put their names in a few extra times to keep him out," I point out. Gilda nods indifferently.

"That doesn't mean he can't still get picked." She shuffles towards the kitchen and I take Kizee's hand as she shudders at the thought of Raphael getting picked. Raphi is just a year older than she is and the two are as close and as quarrelsome as any brother and sister could be. They somehow manage to simultaneously loathe and complete one another.

Kizee enjoys feeling welcome with me and Gilda. The youngest of the four Collands/Maddys girls, she often shies away from our company. I brew coffee and the three of us watch the sky turn gray and sip the drinks without milk or sugar, trying to keep our voices down to allow Parchuck, Raphi, Salla, and Darrin a few more precious minutes of sleep.

Kizee holds her breath for a long while.

"Still nervous, Kizee?" I ask quietly. She nods, exhaling into her coffee cup. "Don't be."

"I'm wearing your old blue dress, right?" She looks up. "The one Mom made before..."

"Yes," I interrupt. "Yes, you're wearing my blue dress." She seems relieved. Gil slurps her coffee loudly and I hear shuffling footsteps approach. Salla appears in the hallway, looking groggy and overtired.

The mood is somber as she leaves to rouse Raphael. Gil, Kizee, and I rush off to make ourselves look semi-presentable.

I look over Kizee as I tie the large bow on the back of what used to be my powder blue dress. She looks like a fresher, more naive, and less world-weary version of Salla with her honey-colored hair pulled into a braided bun. Needless to say, she looks beautiful, though something still seems to be missing. The three of us borrow some of Salla's face powder.

Gilda and I also wear hand-me-downs, ones that come from Salla and my mom's old belongings. Gil's dress is bright red and, paired with her pigtailed braids and a bright ribbon, makes her look like a baby doll. Mine is a sunny yellow and falls to my knees, which are knobbier than I like to look at in the mirror. Gilda and Kizee enjoy trying to do something with my hair (Gilda commenting, as whenever she does things with it, at its near-whiteness) while I powder my eyelids carefully.

I realize all of a sudden what my sister is missing.

"Hey, Kizee," I call. She turns. I undo the ruby pendant that hangs around my neck. Her eyes bulge. "I think you should wear this."

"No, Zaylie, that's always been yours!"

"No it hasn't," I shrug the thought away. "It was Mom's first." She pales.

"No, then."

"It'll protect you, and it will look beautiful with the blue dress." She looks apprehensive and I sigh. "You can give it back to me tonight. It would make me feel better. Please?" Her face brightens and she turns around, inviting me to fasten it around her neck.

Then we're off. The ground crunches under our feet. Raphael squeezes Kizee's hand comfortingly as she starts to hyperventilate. Salla walks some distance behind the four of us, Parchuck on her hip and Darrin holding her shoulders.

"Gil! Zaylie!" We turn to see Ellsa and a raven-haired girl named Verita, whose acquaintance I've made several times in the past.

"Kiz," I turn to my sister, whose eyes are wide as dishes. I kiss the top of her golden head. "Don't be so worried. You'll be alright." She nods determinedly and steps ahead of the rest of us.

I catch Moller's eye momentarily, but he's deeply involved in conversation with a boy named Taran. Gil, Ellsa, Verita, and I join the rest of the sixteen-year-old girls.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" We all mouth along with the words as soon as they're heard over the loudspeaker. The scripted speech is always the same. I get a good look at Dibby Millighan, trying to discern who was closest to predicting her outfit.

No clown makeup this year. Her whole face is one uniformly pale white color save for the electric blue eyeshadow and mascara, but I have to commend her for toning down last year's train wreck. Or maybe 'candy-coated vampire' has gone out of fashion in the Capitol. Who knows?

Her dress is strappy and sleeveless and midnight blue and she is head-to-toe covered in bows. Her high-heels (at least eight inches) have enormous iridescent black bows on the toes and dragging ribbons on the heels. She has a sparkling wig on her head which by itself would be hideous, but the 'hair' shaped into an enormous bow at the peak of Mount Dibby's Head is enough to make one gag.

"Welcome, children!" She giggles through the mic. "Welcome, welcome, welcome! It's a beautiful day in the most beautiful district of Panem! I can smell the outdoors, and not many of us in the Capitol have that leisure. I feel like the luckiest woman alive! Come on, come out!"

I see Seamus lingering among the boys and a smile slowly creeps onto his face. He makes a sign to me, trying to indicate somehow that he's won the bet. I pull a face, shake my head, and frown.

As the fanfare starts playing, I can see Kizee in front of me. She looks startled and terrified and my instinct is to want to hold her hand. I try to drive Dibby Millighan's obnoxious voice out of my head and focus on the faces around me. I wonder which of us it'll be this year.

After this is over with, families will go home, rejoicing and celebrating their one more year of togetherness. Gil, Kizee, Raphael, and I will head home to Salla, Parchuck, and Darrin. Two families will mourn, shut their windows, and eat either weeping or in silence.

I can't wait for it to be over with. I hope I don't have to say goodbye. I hope it's nobody I know.

"Now isn't that wonderful?" Dibby proclaims through the microphone. Her girlish giggles are met with a stoic, bitter silence. "Just absolutely marvelous!" We stare. She laughs again. "Now for my favorite part! It's now time to select one dashing, brave young lady and gentleman for the privilege of participating in this year's annual Hunger Games! Aren't you just so excited?" _Privilege? _For some reason, she finds that she _needs_ to keep talking as she shuffles over to the first of two glass bowls. "Oh, I'm waiting with bated breath! I can hardly- Oh, I can't even- Oh!" I glance over at Gil, who seems to be absorbing this like a sponge, a wicked grin on her face. No doubt she'll be using this for her act at our feast next year. "Well, ladies first, I guess!" Dibby wastes no time in plunging her hand into the bowl, waving the slip of paper in the air like a flag. "And this year's district seven female tribute is..." she holds her breath, as do we all. "Zaylie Collands!"

My world starts to swirl. I have to have heard her wrong. Somebody starts screaming, and the rest of the girls (save Gilda, Ellsa, Verita, and Verita's friend Gattie) back away as though I have some sort of contagious disease.

"Come on, darling!" Dibby spots me and waves me up to the stage.

"No!" I hear someone shrieking. "No, you can't take her!" Someone is pushing through the crowd towards me. Kizee? Gil? I can't tell at this point.

"Come on, dearie!" Dibby grows impatient, waving me on. My head spins. Finally, two peacekeepers grab my arms and haul me forwards. "You're Zaylie?" I nod, feeling as though I have just swallowed a lump of sand. My breathing hitches. "You are quite a beautiful girl. You're a lucky, lucky girl, Miss Zaylie Collands!"

"I don't think so," I murmur, shaking my head. Someone continues to wail in the crowd. "Why would I be lucky?"

"Now for the boys..." she stammers, cheeks a little red under the bright white powder, and hustles over to the other bowl, hardly able to walk in her outfit. If my situation weren't so dire, I might have giggled at how she keeps tripping over the ribbons on her heels. "Nantucket Everard!"

The boy stumbles forward. He's my age. I've seen him a time or two around, but I have no recollection of having had any meaningful conversation with him. I do know, however, that he goes by Tuck and that he has a sister Kizee's age named Amadea, to whom Kizee is close. He has dark brown hair and his skin is tan from spending time in the lumber yard.

I wonder which of District Seven's three victors will be our mentor. Nantucket doesn't take his eyes off me as he makes his way to the stage. It hurts to think that for me to return home to my sisters, he'll have to die. I wonder if he's thinking the same thing. His eyes are very green.

"Oh, very nice! Very nice!" Dibby Millighan squeals. "Shake hands, you two!" Tuck's calloused hand takes my own and our eyes stay locked.

Our hands don't separate.

"Hold on, I want to say something! District Seven," I find my voice finally, dropping Nantucket's hand to make a grab for the mic (much to Dibby's clear annoyance), "thank you for everything!"

"And that concludes this year's reaping!" Dibby trills, moving the mic out of my grasp. But the damage has been done. Tuck and I remain standing center-stage, hands stretching out towards the crowd. Gil is the first to reciprocate the gesture, but the rest of the crowd follows.

"We about to die salute you!" Yells Tuck with a glitter of humor on his scared features. Someone who could be his mother wipes tears off her face. Tuck takes my hand again and a child screams bloody murder. Kizee? Amadea? Who knows at this point?

"That's quite enough!" Dibby whispers harshly. "You two are making a scene!" We're led away as quickly as possible. Only when the peacekeepers surround us does Tuck drop my hand.

We may be about to die, but at least I'll go down with the knowledge that somebody loves me in my district.

* * *

**I know! Fast update, huh? That's unusual for me! :) By the way, when I was describing Dibby Millighan, this is what I pictured in my head: http :/ allysonkat . tumblr . com / post / 21897795398 / i-think-this-ought-to-be-a-capitol-fashion-maybe . Just for a point of reference. I hope you all liked it! I'd love to hear what you thought of it! That means REVIEW my lovely readers! Review! Perhaps it'll spur me to update fast again, which, for those of you who read my other stories, know NEVER happens. And you'd like that, now wouldn't you? ;) **

**There are a few things I'd like to mention about Zaylie's family. Zaylie's friend Gilda and her little brother Raphael have lived with Zaylie's family since they were very, very young. Gil and Raph are not actually related in any way to the Collandses. Zaylie's parents are both dead, and so they share a home with Zaylie's twenty-five year old sister, Salla, and her husband Darrin. Salla and Darrin's six-year-old son is Parchuck. Just in case that wasn't entirely clear. Their family lives in basically abject poverty since Darrin is generally the only one bringing in money (unless Gil contributes from her black-market trades, but that's an on-off sort of situation since she doesn't want peacekeepers tracking her down or finding out and potentially taking it out on Raphi). That's why they all share beds. Zaylie is fiercely loyal to her family and will remain so.  
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**I would like to say a word or two about Freya as well. None of Zaylie's friends really know much about her, but the grave was an old meetup spot when they were still in school. All of their mothers had died by the time they were twelve (except Ellsa, whose mother is fatally crippled). They suspect that she may have been a fighter in the initial uprising, but they aren't entirely certain. Either way, they are convinced that she watches over them as a guardian angel, since Seamus was almost killed at age thirteen in an accident at the lumber mill and he said he dreamed of her healing him during his recovery. Since there's no real religion in the Districts, just superstitions and such, many people are left to make up their own beliefs if they are the kind of person who naturally has faith in things they can't see (lots of children come up with these and as they grow up, either drop it or keep believing in whatever it is in private). Freya is Zaylie, Gil, Ellsa, Seamus, and Moller's closest brush with what could possibly be called religion.  
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**I hope that cleared up any possible confusion (though nobody let on in any reviews that there was any, I felt I'd just explain so everyone was on the same page).  
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**REVIEW! REVIEW! REVIEW!  
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**That is all.  
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	3. Chapter 3

"Zaylie!" My family rushes into the room. Salla wraps her arms around me and I feel her tears seeping into my hair. Kizee and Raph join the pile and Gil stands back, her big brown eyes searching my own. Parchuck's eyes are bright with tears. He doesn't understand. He can't. But he understands his mother's fear.

"Auntie Zay, what did that boy mean about to die?" Parchuck whimpers. "You'll come back, won't you?"

"I promise," I kiss his head, "I'll do all I can to come back. Okay?"

"What if you don't?" The kid doesn't do dramatics, but tears run down his cheeks, which Darrin dabs at with a shirttail. I ruffle Parchuck's white-blonde hair and he wraps a strand of mine around his finger.

"Zaylie, you need to take this," Kizee undoes the ruby necklace. "It can be your token." I feel the tears threatening to spill, but I know I can't cry yet. Not in front of Kizee or Raph or Parchuck.

"Take care of her, Gil," I turn to my friend. Gilda shakes her head sadly.

"You'll be back," she hiccups desperately. "I know you will!" Her big brown eyes are fearful as she looks me up and down, drinking in the moment because she knows it'll be the last time she sees me in person. Then she slams into me, clutching me as close as she can to her chest and squishing the air out of both our lungs.

They promise they'll expect me back. I promise to be this year's victor.

Some promises are made to be broken.

"Your three minutes are up!" The peacekeeper barges into the room, harshly escorting my family away. Kizee throws me one last look and I fasten the ruby pendant around my neck. "Time to go," he nudges me forward.

* * *

"Caven Fetterman," he slurs, shaking Tuck's hand first, then mine. Our mentor, much to my disappointment, is not Johanna Mason or Blight Alder. Our mentor is the district's infamous morphling addict, one of three victors living in our district. Though we're supposed to have two mentors, the Capitol must not care enough about that little tidbit to _force_ either Johanna or Blight to travel to the Capitol each year. Forcing Johanna to participate each year would be like forcing a wildcat to attend one of the governor's annual balls. Caven is apparently the only one who's cared enough to travel for a few years, though most of us suspect it's for the free booze and the Capitol ladies.

"Fantastic to meet you again, Mr. Fetterman," chirps Dibby, beaming as she leads us onto the train. "If you even remember last time," she adds under her breath to herself, though I'm torn whether to smirk or not at the comment. "Your humble abode, at least until we reach the Capitol! Let me show you around. We have all the fixings-"

"Hey, Sunshine," Caven interrupts, "All I need to know is where the bar and the bathrooms are at. Then I'm set."

"You interrupted me," she manages to choke out, shocked at his blunt rudeness. "That's very... very impolite!" Caven sways a bit, narrowing his gaze at her.

"Do I strike you, Miss Millie, as a polite fellow?" Dibby screws her face up and turns her attention back to Tuck and me, smiling broadly again.

"My name is Dibby Millighan, not Millie. Well, since you asked, the dining car is the furthest car to the back. There are two restrooms in each car, and a restroom with a shower for each bedroom compartment." Dibby smiles broadly. "The dining car does have a bar, Mr. Fetterman. If you'll recall."

"Good," he nods and slinks off. Dibby frowns.

"The bar doesn't open until after nine!" She shouts after him, but he doesn't seem to hear her. Or perhaps he just doesn't care. Just as the door is about to shut, we hear him shout back in a crude imitation of her childlike, Capitol-accented voice:

"I do recall!"

She sighs heavily and makes a magnificent sweeping gesture with her arms. "Here you'll find yourself in the lounge car. If you're lucky, perhaps I'll let you eat breakfast in here tomorrow morning. But only if you're on your best behavior. After all, we can't have you spilling on the mahogany, can we?" She giggles and continues. We pass through a door. "Here are your rooms. Zaylie, this will be yours," she opens the door to one, "and Nantucket, this one is yours." The rooms are almost identical, each with a dresser, a window, a bed, a lamp, and a bathroom. "My room is that one," she points at a door next to Tuck's room, "and Caven's will be there, in case you need either of us and we're not to be found elsewhere. Just remember to knock first!" We continue towards the front of the train. "It's truly wonderful, this whole thing."

The tour continues, but all I can think about is Caven's lucky escape. Perhaps tough love works better with Dibby Millighan. I keep this in mind as she drones on about the _wonderful_ desserts and the _marvelous_ views we'll get. My mind already flashes to Gilda and all I can see when I look at Dibby is my friend's imitations of her mannerisms. I chuckle to myself about just how accurate Gil was without ever conversing with the subject of her mimicry. Everything is shimmery and frivolous inside the train.

"Aren't you just so glad to finally be here? It must have been a long day for you both. I know it certainly was for me!" She grins broadly, white teeth against plum-colored lips. I try to smile back but I'm afraid it comes out a cringe. "Perhaps I'll have Caven talk to you. Would you care to speak to him in the lounge? The two of us will meet you there." Dibby bounds off (as much as one can bound in heels like she has on) without another word, leaving Tuck and I to make our acquaintance.

"She's a piece of work," Tuck finally says. I nod.

"No kidding," I grin. "My friend Gil has the best imitation I think I've ever seen."

"Gil... Gilda Maddys?"

"Yeah," I nod. "She's lived with my family ever since her parents died."

"Since we'll probably both be dead by the end of two weeks," Tuck sighs, "I guess there's no harm in telling you that I've been in love with her since grade school." My eyes widen. "Yeah, I know. Surprising, huh?"

"Very," I nod furiously, trying to comprehend. Tuck Everard in love with _our_ Gilda?

"I regret that I never got the chance to let her know," Tuck sighs. "But I guess we all have our regrets."

"I certainly have mine. It's only the fact that we're about to die that we realize they're there," I laugh mirthlessly. I hear Dibby clicking back down the hallway and she halfway scowls, tutting at us:

"I'll hear no such pessimism from you two! I want positive outlooks! Meet you in the lounge. Ten minutes."

"One of us has to die anyway for the other to come out," I point out bitterly. "What's there to be positive about?" Dibby blinks furiously and dashes into her room, quietly shutting the door. The two of us linger in the hallway before moving into the lounge (per Dibby's suggestion) to continue our conversation.

I find myself liking him more and more, which worries me. I can't let myself get attached and I know it.

"Alright," he says finally, "So you know my big secret. What are some of yours?" I hesitate. "Regrets? Anything?" I sigh.

"Promising Kizee and Raphael that I would come back," I groan and lean back, tears threatening to spill over. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! They think I'm going to be a victor!"

"You could be," he shifts. "Never know."

"I won't be," I laugh. A shuffling sound interrupts my fearful ramblings and I brace myself for the impending lecture about keeping a positive attitude when I realize it's Caven stumbling through the doorway.

"What're you two chickadees babbling about?" He stumbles over and plops himself in the armchair in front of us. "Bow lady told me to talk to you."

"Nothing," I reply coldly, wanting him to leave us alone.

"See, you say that," he gesticulates with his glass, "but I can see in your face you're talking about something else. Something deep and philosophical... or at least mildly upsetting." He pauses. "Impending death, perhaps? That's really the only thing _to_ be talking about, since you'll probably both-"

"That's _enough_!" Dibby shouts, heels clacking across the room as she holds a rolled-up magazine threateningly towards Caven. "I will not have you talking to them like that, you- you-!"

His eyes move slowly towards her, whose face is red beneath the stark white foundation. She appears an odd dusty pink shade.

"We were talking about regrets," I inform them both. Dibby looks startled, taken aback.

"What regrets do you have at your tender little age?" Caven snarls. Dibby glowers at him. "You know what regret is? Regret is living while you let somebody else die for you. That's regret, kiddo. You'd understand if you made it past the bloodbath. But you won't."

"Mr. Fetterman, might I have a word with you?" Dibby has partially collected herself, though her cheeks are that same dusty rose hue.

"Nope," he pushes himself out of the chair, "but have a seat and maybe your _optimism_ could keep the little chickadees alive. Because nothing I have to say will." He waltzes off. His sarcasm clearly infuriates her but Dibby takes his place nonetheless.

"How are you finding things?" She asks timidly. Tuck raises an eyebrow at her and I squint and search for patterns in her outfit. She begins to gain traction and speaks faster and faster: "Good? Well, if you'd like refreshments, I could go fetch some strawberries from the food cart. Or tea. Tea is good. Do you have tea in your district, or just coffee?" Why she keeps trying to initiate conversation is beyond me, but boy is she tenacious. "Dinner's still a bit off. I hear we're having a delicious spicy plum stew! Do you have that in your district? Oh, it's about enough to sear your tongue off, but it is very delicious." She pauses, mind wheeling for a new topic. "Oh, darling, would you like to see just the prettiest sight? It's-"

"I'm going to go take a shower before dinner," I interrupt, getting up. She's in the middle of a word and her mouth remains open, word frozen and hanging there in the air, puzzled by my abrasiveness.

I march off to my room and test out the shower. The heat feels good and relaxing on my skin. However, as soon as I sit down on my bed after showering, hair dripping onto the nice sheets, I slip into a deep sleep.

I'm woken by shouting and a loud crash. I can see outside that it's the dead of night.

"Screw you!" I hear the eruption from the other room and have a hard time placing the voice. "Screw you, Caven! For four years now, I've- I try harder than anybody else to make sure those kids have everything-"

"Before you go right ahead and hand them over to be offed by your beloved Capitol!" I can recognize Caven's voice clearly. Was that Dibby? Had Dibby Millighan honestly uttered the words 'screw you'? I am shocked (and, admittedly, a little impressed) to the core. Honestly, I know she and Caven loathe one another, but prim and proper Dibby stooping so low...

It's something I just can't miss. I shove my covers off and make my way as quietly as I can down towards the bar car. Along the way, I feel someone grab my arm and turn to see Tuck.

"Was that Dibby?" He mouths.

"I think so," I giggle back. The two of us silently make our way. Peering in the window, I can see Dibby has some sort of drink in her hand, sloshing about onto the floor, her dress, the gleaming mahogany tables, and Caven Fetterman. She has her head in her hands and Caven smirks.

"My, well," he gloats, "that certainly _is_ one for the record books, isn't it, Miss Millighan?" I'm smiling madly at the scene, though looking over, Tuck wears a disappointed frown. There are tears in Dibby's eyes.

Her voice is low now, so I'm pleased I came to watch, otherwise I would have missed part of the spectacle. She takes a cautious sip from her drink, whirls around and, before he has time to react, hurls it in Caven's general direction (with intent, I hope, to miss, because if her intent was truly to hit him with that glass, I'd feel sorry for her).

"What do you think he did to make Miss Sunshine that furious?" I whisper to Tuck, who, eyes glued to the spectacle like it's a soap opera, shrugs indifferently. "Poor manners?" I guess. Tuck's eyes flicker to my face and the tall boy smirks.

"Or maybe he just said the word 'death,'" he whispers back. We snicker together before the door swings open.

"Looks like you have an audience, Millie!" Trills Caven, mimicking her Capitol accent. Dibby pales first, then blushes madly, tears running down her cheeks. She collapses into the nearest chair, biting her lip against hiccuping sobs.

"I am so," she starts, "so, sorry that you had to see that. I am just so embarrassed." She's a sloppy drunk and rapidly deteriorating.

"Don't worry," I grin, "It was entertaining. That's what you live for, right? Entertainment value?" She flinches.

"It's the alcohol," she whimpers. "I should never have accepted that drink. I know how I get... I've never been one to hold my liquor very well..." She sobs again. "My emotions go on the fritz and sometimes I just..." suddenly she gags.

"Alright, alright, let's talk this over in the morning, okay? Once you've sobered up, hon." Caven grabs her and pulls her from the chair just as she starts to dry heave.

She spews just across the threshold of the bar car. Tuck and I both cringe.

"And you two," Caven calls back to us, sounding labored as he tries to haul the little Capitol girl back to her room, "have seen enough action for one night. Get in bed, and for the love of God, do _not_ mention this in the morning!"

* * *

**My, my, it has been a while, hasn't it? Funny thing is, I've had all these chapters written (I have several more that just need a once-over and a few quick edits), but I just haven't had time to post them. Sorry about that! Reviews would be just lovely, my darling readers, if you get a chance to leave a few. All my love!**


	4. Chapter 4

"This breakfast sucks."

"_Why_ can't you be polite? Plus, it's rude to start eating before everyone has arrived."

"Whatever you say, Sunshine."

"Don't call me that."

"I'll call you whatever the hell I want."

"You don't respect me at all."

"Well, it's hard to respect somebody when they're dressed up like a stick of cotton candy."

Tuck and I walk in to find Dibby and Caven well involved in their new favorite activity: bickering. Dibby's eyes flash to us and she paints a false smile on her face. She hides her hangover well, though I can register the aching in her face as she squints in the light. As per Caven's instruction, I don't mention the incident last night. I wonder momentarily if Dibby even remembers. If she does, I'm sure Little Miss Capitol Princess doesn't want to and will do everything in her power to obliterate the memory.

"Welcome, darlings," she pulls out a chair for me and pats the seat, "Breakfast is all laid out for you."

"Don't bother," Caven snorts. "It's disgusting."

"Would you not talk like that?" Dibby tries to remain composed, but her tone is snappy. "You'll spoil their appetites before they've even tried it. Kids," she addresses us cheerily, "_I_ think it's delicious. If that means anything to you."

"It's Capitol crud," Caven warns. "Eat too much of it, you might turn into saltwater taffy. That's what happened to that one." He points a thumb in Dibby's direction and her eyes narrow only marginally before she smiles broadly and laughs it off.

"Well, aren't you a comedian?" She laughs. "This isn't a roast session, though, it's a breakfast in which I'll be teaching these two some important aspects on how to behave before we arrive."

"You?" He laughs. "Teaching?"

"I took classes, you know!" She furrows her brow. "I wasn't born with any special talents, not like my sisters, so I took classes in comedy, etiquette, public speaking, fashion, and acting, so you could say I'm sort of an expert at the art of charisma." She grins. "Oh, napkin in your lap, please, sweetheart. We'll be dining with some fairly important people-" she hands me a napkin and I comply, eying her warily. "It's only two more short hours until our arrival, and _Caven_ and I," she nudges him with the toe of her heel as he starts to doze off, "have some important advice for you. Oh, go ahead and eat! It's not poisoned, you know!"

"Right," Tuck takes a huge spoonful of sticky pink oatmeal and shovels it into his mouth.

"Let us use our table manners, please, Nantucket," she scolds mildly, "Caven, your advice?"

"My advice? Right," Caven sits up a little, slow eyes looking me and Nantucket up and down. "Stay alive."

"How?" I ask as he starts to get up.

"That's a silly question," he scoffs. "Presuming you follow that little tidbit, which I know you won't-"

"Please." He sits back down.

"Alright, then," he looks me up and down, examining me from a new angle. "You might have some iron in you yet." Dibby fusses a little as I dribble tea on my white skirt, leaning down to dab at it with a paper towel. I don't bother swatting her away. "You really wanna go home, huh?"

"Very much, sir," I try to sound polite.

"Don't call me 'sir.' It makes me feel old. I'm thirty-six."

"She's just trying to be polite-" Dibby starts.

"Shut up," Caven snaps. Dibby bristles but Nantucket reiterates the question before all hell can break loose. Dibby hardly gets in a, "That's no way to talk to a lady of my class!"

"What advice would you give then, specifically?" Tuck asks in the nick of time.

"Specifically? Listen to that one," he winces and points at Dibby, "Because as much as it kills me to say this, your sponsors are more important than your skills. In the end, they decide who lives and who dies. The Capitol will make sure the crowd gets what it wants. So first off, be charismatic. Be polite. Make those Capitol idiots love you."

"That's not-!" Dibby protests, but Caven plugs on:

"When you're in the arena, don't go for the Cornucopia. They'll have it there, no doubt. It's a bloodbath. Do what you can to get away from it. It'll tempt you, don't doubt it, but don't go for it. Don't try to make an alliance with the Careers. Those are the specialty kids from one, two, and four. They'll no sooner have you on their team than knife you in the throat. Don't rely on anybody else. Any attachment you have will only hurt you in the end, and you don't want to have to kill your ally in order to go home, either."

"You didn't have to kill your own ally?" Tuck furrows his brow. Caven sighs.

"No, fortunately one of the careers took care of that. Let's talk about you two, though." He shakes his head as though to shake the bad memories out of it.

"How would we find water if we're dehydrated?" Tuck asks.

"Pray to your sponsors," Caven barks harshly. Tuck scowls. "Or walk downhill. Water runs downhill, right?"

"What about food?"

"You can only get that from sponsors, unless you're particularly good with a bow and arrow." He looks at my arms. "Which I really doubt you are."

"If it gets cold out, how do we-?"

"Sponsors."

"So the answer to every question we have," I clarify, "is going to be 'sponsors?'"

"Somebody's a quick thinker!" Caven grins sarcastically, "Your sponsors are your lifeline. They are _everything_. Not that it'll matter, since you'll probably both be dead the first morning anyway."

"Caven Fetterman!" Dibby squeals.

"I'm done with this conversation," he stands abruptly and storms out of the room. "Stupid, making me talk to them."

"I'll go get him," prim Dibby says, doing her utmost to mask her boiling rage. She carefully stands from the table and clicks across the floor. As soon as the door to the next room clicks shut behind her, shouting erupts. Her voice rises in octaves and decibels and miles per hour as Caven hurls nonsensical insults her way.

"Do you have any idea-"

"-Why the fuck would you follow me, demon lady!-

"-_how_ exactly your actions-"

"-Take off that wig, you look like medusa! You witch!-"

"-undermine _my_ mission-"

"-You're the spawn of Satan, woman, I swear-"

"-and endanger _their_ lives!" The conversation deteriorates from there into unintelligible shrieking (far more shrill, on Dibby's part).

"Shut. Up!" Her voice punctures the air and I hear something snap. Caven, no doubt, taking out his violent anger on some unsuspecting piece of furniture. She gasps audibly and I can visualize her eyes narrowing in my head, one long-nailed finger pointed menacingly at his face. "Have you _any idea at all_ how _expensive_ that table was?"

"Enlighten me," he growls back, "Or better yet, pour me a drink and leave me be."

"You are absolutely incorrigible! How dare you!" She marches primly back into the room and smiles at us, looking frazzled and exasperated. "We're almost there, kids. Aren't you excited to see the Capitol? I'm excited for you; after all, you'll have the experience of a lifetime-"

"Right before we die," Tuck finishes. Dibby's smile sours and she stares wide-eyed into her bowl.

"Look!" I gasp, rushing for the window. There it is, the massive city sprawled out beneath our eyes. The skyscrapers are tall and the architecture is magnificent. The place is alive with colors and lights and my breath is momentarily taken away. I've never seen any place like this in my life!

Then I remind myself that it's the same place that systematically kills twenty-three innocent children every year. That intends to kill me and Tuck. Suddenly, the colors and lights become lurid, almost mocking me. I frown and sit back down.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Dibby sighs.

"No," I cross my legs. "It's a shame."

* * *

**Short chapter, I know guys. More to come tomorrow! Let me know how you're liking the story so far... that review button doesn't bite!  
**


	5. Chapter 5

I'm washed and dried and shaved and waxed and primped until my skin feels like soft velvet under my fingertips. The two who've bathed me whisper at length to one another in the corner.  
"What's going on?" I push myself up onto my elbows.  
"We think you're ready to see Vriska now," the woman says. She has a pile of bright green curls on her head, and her skin is an icky yellowish hue. "I'm Margaritha, by the way. If you need anything."  
"Thank you," I whisper. Margaritha and her friend lead me to another room, with another table on which I think I am supposed to lie down.  
"Vriska will be right with you," Margaritha smiles a wolflike grin and turns to waltz out the door. I'm left alone in an odd pewter room, staring at the table and the ceiling and feeling naked and exposed in only my flimsy gown.  
"Congratulations," a smoky voice calls as the door snaps open. I turn quickly to look at her. "I am Vriska Savas, your stylist."  
"Hi," I extend my hand for her, "I'm Zaylie." I examine her with the same criticality with which she examines me. Her eyes rove up and down my figure, across my face, cataloguing every detail.  
She's a head taller than me and abnormally skinny, wearing some black dress and spindly heels to match. Her eyes are purely black and I can't tell if it's just because of the dark lighting of the room or some optical surgery I'm sure people are into in the Capitol. As I get a closer look at her skin, what looked to be scars crisscrossing her pale skin turn out to be spiraling silver spiderwebs tattooed into her subdermal. Her lips are the color of blood and she wears silver eyeliner and I can't determine if her shimmery silver hair is a wig or just dyed hair. Her fingers are long and spindly, like someone who's played too much guitar in their lifetime and her movements are like that of a predatory cat.  
"Turn around for me please, Zaylie," she asks. I do as I'm told, fearing her venom already. "Arms up. Stand on your tiptoes, please. Now normally." She sighs. As she steps forward, I determine it isn't the odd lighting. Her entire eyes are black, even where the whites should be. I can tell she's looking at me but not where and it unnerves me.  
Everything about her weird style screams 'Capitol,' but I find that she is about as far from Dibby Millighan, the only other Capitolian I've met, as one can get. Vriska makes Dibby seem natural and cute.  
"I like your... uh... tattoos," I try. She smiles. Her teeth are nearly fanglike, like a rattlesnake's, behind her bloodred lips.  
"Thank you, darling."  
It sends shivers up my spine and with every interaction I miss Dibby increasingly more. Which is saying something.  
"Are you Nantucket's stylist, too?" I ask. She narrows her black eyes and shakes her head.  
"Tell me, what does your district do?" She asks. I scuffle backwards a little bit as I sense those eerie eyes drifting.  
"Lumber..." I stutter.  
"Right." She grins. "And tonight is the tribute parade. The world's eyes will be on you. I'm here to make you look beautiful. You have fantastic bone structure already, if I may say so, and beautiful hair. Just a few touches, we'll put you in your dress, and you'll be the belle of the ball! We want you to represent your district, so we've created a dress that reflects your district's duty to Panem."

* * *

I'm dressed like a tree in a skirt made of bark. I don't know whether or not to be humiliated. There are leaves woven through my hair, which is done up, and designs painted in green makeup down my arms.  
Not as humiliating as what Tuck has been forced into. He's dressed in the clothes of a lumberjack, albeit with a Capitol flare, and wearing thick, dark eyeliner. I suppress a giggle.  
"Shut up," he laughs. "You're not much better."  
As quickly as possible, the two of us are loaded into the chariot. I feel better seeing the costumes in front of us. Everybody looks ridiculous, not just us. We race through a tunnel and the sound of fanfare and screaming grows louder until we exit into a road, flanked by stadium seats filled with screaming Capitolians.  
I don't smile like Tuck does. He smiles and waves, hamming it up for his lifelines. I wave. Not timidly, but I won't smile at the people who sent me here. Can't. I can't smile for them.  
The chariots gather at the end of the path, beneath a balcony on which President Snow stands. His puffy, snakelike lips move and he starts to speak:  
"Welcome, tributes, welcome! We salute your courage and your sacrifice. And we wish you-" he pauses momentarily for effect "-Happy Hunger Games. And may the odds-"  
I turn to Tuck and whisper along with the president.  
"-be ever in your favor."  
With that, the chariots move off into what looks like an open warehouse to me. Dibby and Caven are there, along with Vriska and a few other stylists. Dibby crosses her arms staunchly and shoots nervous looks to Vriska, but her eyes quickly dart up at our approach and she smiles brightly.  
"You were _brilliant_," Dibby grins, helping me down from the carriage and wrapping me in a highly uncomfortable embrace. "Oh, Zaylie, you looked so... so _fierce_!" My multiple tree-trunk petticoats weigh down my body immensely, making it hard to tug free and escape. She releases me and turns to Tuck. "And, Nantucket! They _adored_ you! How could they not, with Lamorne's style expertise, but your smiles must have won their hearts!" Dibby motions towards a skinny man in as odd an outfit as she wears and he nods gratefully at her. Vriska offers me and Tuck a hungry smile.  
"You two looked good out there," she says in her husky, smoky voice.  
"Yeah, uh," Caven shifts uncomfortably, looking at Vriska, then at me. "You looked great, hon. You, too, kiddo." He claps Tuck on the shoulder.  
"Let's head up to the room," Dibby suggests. Sounding forced even to me, she adds, "I know you're busy tonight, Lamorne, but would you like to join us for supper, Vriska?"  
"I have lots to do," Vriska purrs with a menacing tone in her voice, "Preparations for the interviews. You know." I finger the ruby pendant on my neck as I feel her predatory eyes move to it. "Perhaps I'll join with you all sometime tomorrow."  
"That would be lovely, Vriska, absolutely lovely!" Dibby beams. "Tomorrow, then."  
"You're a doll," Vriska pats Dibby on the top of her wig and I've seen Dibby interacting with people enough now to tell that she's close to snapping about the condescending attitude Vriska holds towards her. She doesn't snap, however, but steers me, Tuck, and Caven towards the elevator, offering a teeny wave over her shoulder to the stylists.  
"Each district gets their own floor. We're high enough up to get our own balcony! Lovely view of the city from there," Dibby yammers. "And we have dinner waiting for us. Oh, I can't wait to show you all around!"  
We pass the kids from District Twelve, whose escort is a little bit reminiscent of Dibby. Older, perhaps, and slightly less talkative, but the idea is the same. In fact, most of the escorts I've seen seem to be similar in dress and conduct. The kids from Twelve seem so very small compared to the rest of the kids and my mind instantly goes to Kizee and Raphael. The skinny little girl's pewter gray eyes make contact with my own and I offer her a comforting smile.  
"Come on, now, stop dawdling," Dibby taps her foot impatiently like a petulant child and I almost make a joke out of it, but I don't. I am so furious about the situation. She represents in flesh and blood everything I hate about the Capitol. Those skinny innocents from Twelve are going to die right off. I blame her since she's there, which I realize isn't fair, but she's Dibby and I know she'll bounce back by the time we reach our room after a good chiding.  
"I'll _dawdle_," I mimic her babyish voice, "as much as I so please, thank you." The district twelve escort looks up and frowns, leaning over to murmur something to their mentor, who's drunk off his ass (much like Caven). The boy looks up and meets my eyes, too. His are gray like the girl's, but not as dark.  
"You'll have time to make friends during training," Dibby insists. "You're making a scene." I turn an irritated glare towards her.  
"Come on, kid, I'm hungry!" Whines Caven. "Old Cotton Candy here has a point." Dibby points a threatening finger at Caven and shoots an apologetic glance at the escort from Twelve, but the four of us move towards the elevator.  
As the doors open, Dibby grins madly, doing an energetic twirl in the middle of the room.  
"So here we are, floor seven! This is the living room, and the kitchen, and the dining room," she points about, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet (which I had figured was physically impossible in her towering heels). "These marble floors are just _fantastic_. One cannot help but love them." I snort to myself. Marble floors? Was she for real? "Your rooms will be down that hallway. I suggest you freshen up before we eat dinner. I know I'm going to! See you, darlings!" She trots off to where I assume her room is.  
I follow suit much more slowly and carefully, peering into what is to be my room. The bed is huge and soft, big enough to fit my entire family comfortably. I feel a twinge of irritation in my gut at this fact. The enormous window shows the Capitol streets gleaming below and, without even thinking, I get a running start and launch myself onto the bed, giggling a little bit.  
Dibby appears in my doorway, shoots me a knowing glance, and returns to her own room. I frown. What could she want?  
I reach for the remote on the bedside table (a commodity I suddenly realize I've been missing for most of my life- a bedside table) and click the first button my fingers find. I discover the window, to my disappointment, is nothing but a gigantic screen. The image flashes to that of a thick, unfamiliar woodland.  
I click again until I see the familiar pine forests of my district and sigh, tucking myself into bed and falling to sleep pretending that I'm home with Gil and Kizee because I want to be there with them and not here by myself.  
For some reason, my mind jumps to my guardian angel. I feel her presence here with me, warm and maternal and protective. I whisper, "Goodnight, Freya," before closing my eyes.

* * *

Sorry about taking so long to update. Finally, right? Here it is, though.


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